


Drenched

by GoldenTruth813



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boys Kissing, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Frottage, Getting Together, HP: EWE, Hand Jobs, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Shower Sex, Teasing, bulletin boards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 01:09:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14367660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813
Summary: After a particularly long, wet, and cold Seeker's game Harry and Draco make their way into the changing rooms where Harry seems to lose his clothes and his inhibitions. Nothing is going to happen though. Of course it's not.





	Drenched

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you aibidil for the wonderful beta! <3

“Good game,” Potter said with a wry grin, tossing his Firebolt over his shoulder as they trudged through the rain-soaked grass back to the changing rooms. Draco’s robes were drenched, his hair plastered to his forehead, and with every step the water seeped into his shoes, squishing around his feet.

“Easy for you to say. You won,” Draco grumbled, though he wasn’t as put out as he tried to sound. Their game had lasted well into the evening and the last few students who’d been hanging around the pitch had deserted the second the rain had stopped. Potter had refused to quit, however, and if Potter wasn’t stopping then neither was Draco. It’d been another hour before Potter had finally spotted the Snitch. And though Draco wasn’t going to admit it, he was just glad the game was over. He was cold, starving, and worst of all _wet_.

It was impossible to be mad at losing the game, though, when Potter’s smile at winning made Draco feel happier than if he’d caught the Snitch himself. Fucking Potter. Always doing things like, well, _existing_ , and making Draco’s life feel about a thousand times more complicated than it should.

“You won last week and you were still cranky. What the fuck does make you happy?” Potter asked, voice devoid of any true malice as he nudged Draco’s shoulder with his own. 

_You_ , Draco thought, pushing that thought down.

“Yes, well I might’ve won, but Weasley got a photo of me falling off my broom and put it on the bulletin board.”

“Merlin, that was brilliant,” Harry said, looking wistful. Draco wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss him or hex him.

It was _not_ brilliant. Quite the opposite, in Draco’s opinion. Draco hated that bulletin board. He wasn’t even sure who’d put up. He had a sneaking suspicion it might’ve been Luna, though how or why he had no idea, since she wasn’t even an eighth year. 

One night they’d all gone to bed and the next morning when they awoke there’d been an empty bulletin board above the fireplace in the new eighth-year common room. No one had been sure what it was for or why it’d been put there, but after several attempts to take it down—all of which had failed—everyone had decided to ignore it.

They’d all ignored the bulletin board like they ignored each other.

Until one day everything changed. Or started to, anyway.

Draco wasn’t even sure who had started putting things up on the board, but it became a sort of badge of honour—if you considered being the laughing stock of the eighth years and embarrassed beyond belief an honour. The thing was, though, in a weird way, Draco thought maybe it was. Being up there meant you were a part of something, a part of them. Somehow, the eighth years had gone from lost and divided to healing and laughing—all over a silly bulletin board.

Weasley had been the first to appear on it.

It had been exactly a month after they’d all returned to Hogwarts. The eighth years had woken up to find an enlarged photo of Weasley fast asleep and cuddling a stuffed dragon pinned to the previously blank bulletin board. In the photo, Weasley shifted in his sleep, cuddling the dragon even tighter on a loop. Over and over. Everyone seemed frozen, glancing between the photo and Weasley, who had looked horrified, his ears turning bright red. But before Weasley could bellow out a curse—or show off his infamous temper—at whoever had done it, Potter had collapsed onto the sofa howling with laughter. It was the first time Draco had heard Potter laugh since before the war and something about the sound must have affected everyone else as much as it had Draco. It was as if suddenly everyone could let out the breath they had been holding as Weasley tackled Potter to the floor, mercilessly wrestling—or tickling, he couldn’t be sure—Potter to the floor and laughing right along with him.  
Draco wasn’t sure why embarrassing each other made everyone closer, but somehow it had. As if something had broken that day, and instead of their spirits it seemed to be their fear. The tension had shattered and the invisible lines they’d all drawn to keep themselves whole had slowly dissolved.

That night, Potter had lain in the bed across from Draco in their shared room and asked Draco who he thought might be next. Draco had no idea, only hoped it wouldn’t be him.

Sometimes it was a photo, sometimes someone’s lost homework, and once a rather explicit message from Finnegan that everyone was pretty sure was supposed to have gone to Thomas. Though rather than look embarrassed at being found out, Finnegan had whistled loudly and patted himself on the back before standing on his tip toes and kissing Thomas smack dab in the middle of the common room. Fucking Gryffindors were crazy.

The thing was, as much as Draco hated it, there was a secret part of him that loved it. Not that he’d tell anyone that, especially not Potter. But there was something about finding out they were all capable of moving on—of teasing each other about inconsequential things like who someone was kissing or who wore the ugliest pyjamas, rather than hurling insults and clinging to the past—that made Draco feel hopeful. 

Of course it didn’t hurt that Potter was a regular feature on the bulletin board. There was something about the red patches that popped up on Potter’s neck every time his photo went up there, and the way his chest heaved as he laughed at himself that made Draco _feel_ things. He liked that Potter didn’t take himself too seriously anymore, liked that he laughed at himself and wasn’t above self-deprecating humor. He liked a lot of things about Potter.

Draco had come back to Hogwarts because he had nothing, not realizing he might find things he never thought he could have. Like Potter.

Draco found himself unable to stop watching the line of Potter’s back a he followed him into the changing rooms that’d been erected during the repairs to Hogwarts over the summer, swallowing down the swell of arousal he felt at the sight of Potter’s wet Quidditch gear clinging to his body.

“Are you listening to me?” Potter asked, quirking an eyebrow as he dropped his broom onto the bench.

“Depends. Did you say anything interesting?” Draco asked seriously, insurmountably pleased when Potter flipped him off. He adjusted his robes as his cock gave a twitch of appreciation at the curve of Potter’s lips as he tried to fight back a smile. Perhaps Draco liked getting under Potter’s skin just a little _too_ much.

“You’re such a fucking wanker.”

“What’s your point?” Draco asked, leaning back against the lockers and crossing his arms.

“Nothing. I have absolutely no ulterior motives and I mean nothing,” Potter said, screwing his face up at Draco in what was undeniably supposed to be unattractive but was, somehow, adorable, before undoing the last few buttons on his robe and letting it fall to the floor.

“What are you doing?”

Potter shook his head, sending water droplets flying onto Draco’s face. “M’gonna shower.”

“It’s raining outside.” Draco felt like this was stating the obvious, but as Potter was preparing to take a shower, then dry off, only to go back into the rain to get to the castle, he thought it bore repeating just the same.

Potter, however, looked unconcerned, making a small sound of frustration as he roughly tugged his soggy jumper over his head and knocked his glasses to the floor. “Well, I’m fucking freezing. I want to be warm now. And besides, we can cast an _Impervius_ if we’re dry to begin with, you berk.”

Before Draco could say anything else to that, Potter was unfastening the buttons on his jeans and shoving them down his legs, along with his pants. The rough denim clung to his thighs on the way down and Draco’s eyes were glued to the way Potter’s fingers clenched as he pushed them down harder until the pooled at his feet. Potter’s legs were still a bit too thin, with knobby knees and a scar on his right calf, and there was a thick dusting of dark hair on his upper thighs. Draco liked the flaws in Potter’s body; liked the strength. It was hard to look away. Mostly though, what Draco had a hard time looking away from was the swell of Potter’s round arse as he walked towards the showers without an ounce of shame, the dimples at his lower back flexing with the movement of his hips.

Granted, they’d been sharing a room for months now and they’d seen each other coming and going from the shower or changing clothes enough that it wasn’t exactly new to see Potter’s naked body. But sometimes, like now, the casual intimacy of disrobing in front of each other without embarrassment made Draco’s heart do funny things—like entertain the absolutely outlandish idea of being in love with Potter.

“Are you coming?” Harry asked without turning around, fiddling with the knobs for a few seconds, the water bursting out in a heavy stream, before walking beneath the water. 

It was on the tip of Draco’s tongue to answer _no_. He had no intention of using the subpar changing room showers when they had perfectly good ones back in their dorm that weren’t stuck to the ugly tiled wall out in the wide open without an ounce of privacy.

Of course, the problem wasn’t that Draco didn’t want Potter to see him naked. That had already happened on a fair few occasions since they’d been assigned as roommates at the beginning of term. It was impossible to avoid when you shared a room with someone.

No, the real problem was that Draco wasn’t sure it was a good idea to be naked at the same time as Potter. To be naked and so close to Potter—if he were to just reach out, his fingers would brush across bare skin. Close enough to watch the water cascade down the side of Potter’s neck, his eyes squeezed shut and his head thrown back under the torrent of water.

Potter swallowed, stepping out of the direct line of water and blinking his eyes open at Draco, who felt rooted to the spot. He quite suddenly wished he was wearing Potter’s invisibility cloak to avoid being caught staring at Potter as he showered.

Potter didn’t look put off or surprised, though, which was surprising enough for Draco. Instead, he grinned as he turned his back on Draco, stepping back under the water and grabbing the bar of soap off the ledge in front of him. Potter rubbed the soap until his hands were generously sudsy, then moved his hands across his chest and and down his hips. He bent over to wash from the tops of his thighs all the way down to the scrawny bones jutting out at his ankles. Draco was pretty sure Potter didn't need to spread his legs that much to wash the tops of his feet but Draco wasn't complaining because it gave him an unrestricted view of Potter’s half-hard cock dangling between his legs, his balls dark and heavy and fuck, Potter’s cock was definitely getting harder, _longer_.

Draco knew he needed to turn away before he did something stupid like march over there and finish the job Harry had started, desperate to get his hands on the bits of skin Harry couldn’t reach—the base of his spine, the dip between his sharp shoulder blades or the space just below his neck where the too long wisps of black hair hung wet and heavy. Draco shuddered, pressing the palm of his hand against his own cock.

This was ridiculous. Potter was ridiculous. Potter made him feel ridiculous. Ridiculously happy. Ridiculously aroused. Fucking Potter.

With a casual wave of his hand, Potter managed to turn the knob on the shower next to him, the water coming out in a strong spray. Draco wondered if Potter was aware of what a turn-on his wandless magic was. Probably not, considering it was Potter and he seemed completely unaware of the effect he had on people—on _Draco_.

“You waiting for an invitation or do you just like standing there cold and wet like a soggy mop?” Harry yelled, his voice echoing in the small room. “Unless you’re scared.”  
Well, Draco was wet. And cold. And he disliked Potter’s insinuation that Draco was somehow scared of a shower. Wanker. “I’m not scared. I was simply pondering how it was you lived to the ripe old age of eighteen with such abysmal social skills.”

Potter snorted, turning to the side and pouring the shampoo in his hands as he watched Draco undress. Potter’s gaze was daring; he wasn’t even bothering to hide the fact that he was watching Draco’s fingers as they tugged off his jumper then pushed down his own trousers.

Potter’s gaze was unrelenting, _bold_ , and when Draco felt a shiver course through his body, he knew it wasn’t from the cold.

Draco knew he wanted Potter, but had never acknowledged it to Potter, mostly because he thought the pining was rather one-sided. Draco was quite content to go to his grave not saying anything because he was neither brave enough nor stupid enough to make the first move—not when the risk was losing the tentative thing that hard started between them. Sure, Draco wanted to kiss Potter, wanted to touch him, wanted to wreck him, but he also liked laughing with him and playing their Seekers games and studying late into the night. He liked being around someone who knew the worst things about him and still seemed determined to see the best.

It wasn’t as if Draco hadn't watched Potter—with and without his clothing—on more than one occasion. But this, this was different. Those had been glances stolen when he was afraid of being caught, but this, well Draco didn’t know what the fuck this was, but it made his blood run hot and his heart race. 

Draco was used to pretending it didn’t mean anything when they sat too close on the sofa near the fireplace studying together even though there was plenty of room for one of them to sit somewhere else. He was used to ignoring the loud thump of his heart when their knees touched beneath the Potions desk when they partnered up, or pretending it didn't mean anything the first time Potter had fallen asleep on his shoulder in the middle of the eighth-year common room and somehow continued to do so every weekend after. 

They were friends. These were things friends did—hang out together, laugh at each other’s jokes, take the piss, _touch_.

Draco was pretty sure he could survive without knowing what Potter’s lips tasted like, but he knew he couldn’t live without his friendship. Not anymore, not now that he had it.  
And yet here was Potter, eyes focused on Draco with his bottom lip pulled into his mouth as he rinsed his hair and watched Draco walk across the room. The tile beneath Draco’s feet was like ice and yet his body was burning. 

Maybe Potter could be brave enough and stupid enough for the both of them, he thought, stopping beside the other boy and wondering if it was his imagination or the oxygen was actually leaving the room.  
“See, I have brilliant ideas. Tell me that doesn’t feel nice,” Potter said triumphantly, seeming to realise he’d been staring and now trying (and failing) to pretend he wasn’t still watching Draco.  
Potter was right, of course. It felt nice. A little _too_ nice really.

Draco’s cock began to harden and he wanted to Apparate away immediately because, fuck it all, he wasn’t even hard from looking at Potter—not that it had hurt, he liked looking at Potter—no, he was getting hard from being so fucking close to him that Draco could practically feel Potter’s steady heartbeat reverberating in his body. 

The showers were so obscenely close that his elbow kept bumping Potter’s as they attempted to wash themselves. A whole wall of showers and Potter had turned the water on this one, the one close enough to his own they might as well have been taking a shower _together_. It should’ve been awkward, digging his fingers into his hair, more aware of the heavy weight of his hardening cock between his legs than ever as he stole glances at Potter. But instead, it was fucking exhilarating. 

“You looked like a baby hippogryph learning to fly out there by the way. Maybe next time we should cancel our game and I could give you a few flying lessons instead.”

Draco dropped the soap, turning to glare when he realised Potter was taking the piss. “Fuck you,” he said eloquently, the corners of his lips quirking up when Potter threw his head back and laughed.

Draco reached out, intending to shove Potter’s shoulder playfully, but the second his fingers made contact with the warm, wet skin of Potter’s shoulder, it was as if he’d crossed some invisible line. Draco didn’t know which one of them moved first, just that one second his fingers were on Potter’s shoulder and the next they were on Potter’s arse as Potter shoved him back against the wall, the water cascading down Potter’s back as they kissed.

Potter’s mouth turned out to be as bold as the rest of him. Potter’s tongue glided along Draco’s bottom lip before he sucked it into his mouth, _hard_ , and fuck—Potter was good at kissing. Draco didn’t want to think too hard about who he might have practised with because it made something twinge in his chest with a painful intensity. Without even consciously meaning to, his fingers dug into Potter’s arse, pulling him closer until their bodies were pressed together and God, that felt as good as Draco had imagined. Draco’s head swam at all the warm, wet skin against his own.

Draco tried to keep the sounds in, tried not moan and groan every time Potter’s fingers gripped him tighter or his cock got just the right amount of friction or when Potter’s lips moved from his mouth or his jaw to his lips. It’s impossible though, and Draco is quite certain that along with the mud swirling down the drain between their feet, the shower seems to be washing away their inhibitions, too.  
Potter’s cock was hard and solid, pressing into the taut skin between his hip and his own cock. Just when Draco thought it couldn’t possibly get any better, Potter shifted sideways until their cocks lined up. Draco had never been more grateful that he and Potter were almost the same height. Sure, he lorded his extra inch over Potter every chance he got, but when it came down it they were _almost_ the same height. Standing like this, their cocks fit together perfectly and Draco tried desperately to hold back the sounds threatening to spill out of his mouth. But _fuck—_ that moan definitely came from him, and he didn’t care, because Potter was just as loud, mouthing up and down his neck before his mouth to Draco’s lips again as they rutted together. 

It was wet and soapy and so unexpected but _wanted_ , and Draco was simply glad he was leaning against the wall for support.

“Want, _fuck_ —want you to come,” Potter groaned, pressing his face into his Draco’s neck, his hands moving up and down Draco’s back and down over the curve of his arse. Draco wanted to scream. Fucking selfless perfect wanker.

It was impossible to think straight with Potter moving against him and touching him, but there was nothing to think about, really. Draco wanted Potter. Desperately. And Potter obviously wanted him, too. “Thought that was the general idea.”

Potter’s laughter was silent but Draco could feel it reverberating against his body. “You wanker.”

Draco shook his head, watching the rivulets of water drip down Potter’s neck with rapt attention. This was _Potter_ , the boy he wanted more than anything but also the boy who ate his treacle tart before supper and drooled and snored when he fell asleep on the common room sofa. Draco used to think things like that would make the sex part—if they ever got that far—all a bit less sexy, but somehow it made it _more_ —more everything. More important. More meaningful. More nerve-racking, in the best way possible.

Draco liked that he knew the messy, unsavoury bits of Potter. He liked that Potter wasn’t perfect and still had a bit of a temper and was always losing his socks and snuck owl treats up to the owlery when he thought no one was watching. He liked that Potter was still unfailingly noble even when it cost him something, and that after everything they’d been through, that Potter could still choose to see the best in himself _and_ in Draco.

“Frotter, more like it,” he said, mildly impressed with his ability not to laugh at the ridiculousness of that sentence. Potter was ridiculous. Potter made him feel ridiculous—made him feel young and silly and full of hope. Draco followed those words with an inelegant moan when Potter bent his knees enough that his cock slid beneath Draco’s, his hard length nudging Draco’s balls and sliding between his thighs. 

“S’not a word,” Potter groaned, the movement of his hips becoming erratic. Draco’d heard Potter wanking enough in the middle of the night to know what that laboured panting meant. Potter was close and fuck, Draco wanted to wreck him.

“It is if I say it is,” Draco insisted, wanting to suck at the water pooling near Potter’s collarbone, so he did.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” Potter gasped.

Draco laughed against the warm, wet skin of Potter’s shoulder. 

Draco put his hands on Potter’s hips to still him and it took a few seconds before he seemed to get the idea and stopped thrusting, letting Draco switch their places so that Draco had him pinned against the wall. 

Potter’s mouth fell open, but his words were lost in a needy sounding moan as Draco picked up their previous activities, rutting against Potter until Potter’s hands were digging into his sides with almost painful intensity—fuck, did Draco like that—then shuddering against Draco as he came with a strangled cry. Draco watched Potter’s release coat their bodies, only to be washed down the drain by the showers.

“Fuck,” Potter huffed, dropping his forehead to Draco’s shoulder, releasing his death grip and running his hands up and down Draco’s sides almost soothingly. He wondered if Potter was doing it for himself or for Draco. Perhaps both. “You haven’t come.”

“What tipped you off?” Draco laughed, the weight of what the world might think of him falling away in the face of Potter so clearly showing what _he_ thought of him.

Potter lifted his head to laugh at Draco. He looked amused, moving his face back into the crook of Draco’s shoulder and nuzzling into Draco’s neck like some sort of kneazle. “Just a small hunch,” he whispered, his fingertips moving down to ghost down the length of Draco’s impossibly hard cock.

“There is nothing small— _oh_ ,” Draco gasped, eyes fluttering shut as Potter’s hand wrapped firmly around his cock this time. Potter’s strokes were a little awkward, his grip unsure but determined, and yet none of the technicalities mattered in the face of the reality of Potter’s warm, calloused fingers stroking Draco’s cock. “ _Fuck_.”

Potter’s mouth was open at his neck, hot puffs of air and open-mouthed kisses being pressed to Draco’s skin. Draco wanted it to last forever, wanted to memorise the way Potter’s strong fingers felt on his cock, the way Potter’s thumb glided across the slit or the way Potter sounded whispering, “Fuck, come, please. Fuck,” into his ear.

Draco wanted to hold off just to show he could, but the only person that would hurt would be himself. So instead he wrapped his hand over Potter’s, wordlessly showing him the pace he liked.

“Fuck, yes, like that,” Draco breathed out, a feeling of bliss overtaking him as Potter’s pace changed into one that made Draco’s toes curl with pleasure.

“Fucking hell,” Potter whimpered, sucking hard enough on Draco’s shoulder he knew it would leave a mark. Draco felt consumed by Potter, by the sounds he made and the desperate way he wanted to give Draco pleasure. It was everything and nothing like Draco had imagined.

Other people seemed to want Potter for what he could give them, and in that moment Draco knew he wanted Potter for what they could give each other.

“Harry,” Draco whispered, the name falling from his lips of its own accord. It did something to Draco to say it, but fuck did it to do something to Harry. Harry, whose fingers slipped as he made a choking noise, slamming his lips into Draco’s and kissing him until Draco couldn’t breathe, until he was gasping for breath into Potter’s mouth and coming between their bodies just from the pressure of Potter’s stomach against his cock.

It was too much, and Draco tried, fuck he tried, to keep it together. But it didn’t seem to matter because Potter seemed just as undone, huffing into Draco’s neck before moving his mouth to Draco’s and starting to kissing him even though both of them seemed short of breath and shaky.

They stayed there for a long time, unmoving, until all the hot water had gone, but Draco wasn’t cold. With Harry’s body against his own, Draco had never felt warmer.

Draco wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, kissing and touching for no other reason than because they could, before they finally retired from the showers. It took them just as long to make it from the showers to the other side of the changing rooms, since neither of them were inclined to stop kissing or touching long enough to walk across the room.

After finally drying off, Draco was halfway towards reaching for his trousers—now spelled dry—when Potter shoved him against the lockers, dropped to his knees, and whispered, “Can I taste you?”

After that, it only seemed fair that Draco get a turn. He’d never had his mouth on another cock before, and despite the fact that he felt like he must be doing something wrong, Potter’s hands in his hair and the filthy words that fell from his lips were enough to dispel that thought from Draco’s mind pretty quickly. 

Potter collapsed to the cold floor after, moaning about being murdered and unable to move as he dramatically threw his arm over his face and breathed deeply. Draco laughed, but collapsed on top of him all the same. 

A few hours later, he woke up to Potter cursing about his arse being freezing and Draco realised they’d fallen asleep on the floor— _naked_. Or to be precise, Harry had fallen asleep on the floor and Draco had fallen asleep on top of Harry.

Of course in the midst of trying to get dressed to sneak back up to the castle, Draco made the mistake of looking over at Harry and something about the soft, sleepy look on his face and the warm languidness of his limbs as he tried to shove them into his clothing had Draco pressing Harry back into the wall and kissing him until they were both hard and whimpering. Half asleep and high on the newness of it all, it didn't take long before they were both coming in a sticky mess they had to spell away _before_ finally getting their clothes back on.

Which meant by the time they actually made it back to the eighth-year common room, the sun was starting to rise, hints of the new day just peeking through the large windows that overlooked the Quidditch pitch.

“Hey, look,” Potter whispered, nodding his head to the bulletin board above the fireplace. It was a photo. A photo of him and Potter walking into the changing rooms last night. The way Potter looked at him in the photo left little to no question as to what they had got up to next.

“Do you want to take it down?” Harry asked, steeling his shoulders as if preparing for disappointment. Draco liked that Potter asked, that Potter respected Draco’s desire for privacy. But this, this wasn’t something Draco was embarrassed about, this wasn’t something he wanted to hide.

Draco didn’t know who had taken the photo, but he wasn’t bothered. Truth be told, he was pretty fucking happy in a way he wasn’t used to, in a way that terrified him because he didn’t want to lose it.

Draco thought perhaps it was fitting that the second time he made it onto the board, it wasn’t alone, but with Harry—that whatever else might happen this year it was happening to both of them now, _together_ .

Harry’s hand reached out, his fingertips just brushing the side of Draco’s, and it occurred to Draco then that he hadn’t answered. When he didn’t pull away at the touch, Harry took a step closer, brushing his fingers on the inside of Draco’s wrist.

Draco opened his mouth to say something when a flash of silver on the coffee table caught his eye. It was Pansy’s newfangled Muggle-Wizard hybrid camera. Draco forgot the name, even though Pansy had told him a million times. All he knew was it cost a fortune and popped out wizarding photos instantly, no need for a special potion for developing.

Draco moved away from Harry, grabbing the camera and grinning when a look of dawning realisation crossed Harry’s face. “What do you say we take a few photos to really get them talking?”

Potter laughed, his face breaking out in a smile as he stole a quick kiss and dragged Draco down the corridor towards their room. “You are so on.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://goldentruth813.tumblr.com/) <3


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